The invitation of the book presentation stated that it started at 5 pm. Limited experience shows that you can safely arrive half an hour later, then it usually really starts. The presentation was in a room that overlooked a square in the middle of the city. Because it ran late at home, I was a little later than the planned half hour. I parked my bike and immediately saw that it was wrong. The hall was full. Everyone was staring intently at the stage. There the author of the book was interviewed by a journalist from The Green Amsterdammer. I sat on the windowsill of the next door and messaged an acquaintance who I expected to be in.
“Are you at that book launch?”
‘No. Didn’t make it. You?’
‘I’m outside now. But it all looks very serious. If I go in now I’ll be lynched.’
That was certainly no exaggeration. It was a serious book from a serious publisher, which attracted very serious people. At best, the entire hall would chant ‘shame, shame, shame’ as I entered.
So it was wiser to wait until the drink started. From a bench across the square I had an excellent view of the stage. In line with the theme of the book, loneliness and digital addictions, I was on my phone and listening to a podcast.
“Let me know how it was,” the acquaintance texted.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty. After the interview there turned out to be a Q&A, which was used enormously. Had the interview not been enough? Couldn’t those people just read the book?
This took me too long. I got up and walked to my bike. All this in a ridiculous, bent posture, my face shielded from the audience so that no one could see me.
“I’m going home again,” I texted the acquaintance.
She asked how it had been.
I replied that I had not been inside.
“This is honestly the most introverted thing I’ve ever heard,” she replied.
Well, I replied. What should I have done then? “Walk in an hour late and pretend nothing’s wrong?”
“Yes,” she replied. And then, in capitals: ‘YOU WERE ALREADY AT THE DOOR.’
But, I said, ‘no one has seen me. I was sitting on a bench across the street. Undercover.’
“Jesus,” she sent back, “even worse.” I haven’t heard from her since then. She probably thinks I’m crazy. Which, of course, is something to be said.